THE RED SONG
I.
They say, my song, I must grasp my heart
And squeeze you, drop by drop, from its agony.
They say, my song, I must grasp my heart
And squeeze you, drop by drop, from its agony.
So the lank Florentine sang of his dammed-up passion,
Lifting his virgin love above the clouds of angels.
So the crushed hearts of Poe and Thompson
Bled dark dyes for cloths of gloom
To shroud their young dead loves.
So Heine poured his gray and poisoned floods
Over her false soul who once let him love her.
Lifting his virgin love above the clouds of angels.
So the crushed hearts of Poe and Thompson
Bled dark dyes for cloths of gloom
To shroud their young dead loves.
So Heine poured his gray and poisoned floods
Over her false soul who once let him love her.
Come forth then, heart:
Let me hold your live scarred vigor over this page,
And wring from you every clotted reminder
To line forth the blackened story of my love.
Let me hold your live scarred vigor over this page,
And wring from you every clotted reminder
To line forth the blackened story of my love.
The drops fall, one by one—
A dead hollow sound, like the throb of a drum
With no body beneath it.
See how the dun spots stain the blank whiteness!
A dead hollow sound, like the throb of a drum
With no body beneath it.
See how the dun spots stain the blank whiteness!
II.
From my earliest hour, I have been in love;
And she who drew the flow of my love to her,
From my earliest hour, I have been in love;
And she who drew the flow of my love to her,
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